


Special Delivery

by VikingSong



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Crack, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Humor, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inspired by Fanfiction, I’m both relieved and concerned that that’s an actual tag, Post-Magic Reveal, except, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:00:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29448183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VikingSong/pseuds/VikingSong
Summary: One-shot tag to N16’s fic “Lucky Roll”Arthur wants to ensure his Court Sorcerer’s mother is properly looked after, so he sends the Knights of the Round Table to deliver some practical gifts. Predictably, chaos ensues.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	Special Delivery

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Lucky Roll](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29379705) by [N16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/N16/pseuds/N16). 



> In _Inception_ -levels of nested inspirations:  
> The first scene of this one-shot was inspired by the post-script to N16’s fic “Lucky Roll”—a post-script which was itself inspired by a comment which gatoradeeh7x3 had left on said fic. The remainder of this one-shot was inspired by N16’s replies to my comments on said fic.
> 
> Anyway, this probably won’t make very much sense unless you’ve read N16’s fic and post-script first. So, um, do that if you haven’t already. I’ll wait. ;)
> 
> Simply because I can, and because it’s not overtly stated otherwise in N16’s fic, I’m pretending that everything turned out perfectly and nobody died, so all the Round Table knights are here, including Lancelot, Elyan, and Mordred.

The Knights of the Round Table are standing in an awkward little semi-circle around Hunith’s door when she answers it. Two knights—Leon and Percival—are holding one chicken apiece; a third—Gwaine—holds a bored-looking goat by a lead-rope. They shuffle uncomfortably as Hunith blinks at them for a moment before Gwaine abruptly says “Here” and shoves the rope into Hunith’s hand. At the same moment, Leon and Percival wordlessly thrust the chickens at her, holding them out at arms’ length.

“Um,” Hunith says, looking from the goat to the chickens to the knights and back again, “did Merlin accidentally turn himself into a goat _again_?”

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Lancelot diplomatically clears up the confusion by quickly reassuring Hunith that her son is happily doing Court-Sorcerer-y things back in Camelot, not chewing his cud in her front flower patch. With an unflappable grace befitting a woman who’d had to contend with raising a tiny, snarky, accident-prone warlock all on her own, Hunith shifts seamlessly from _is-my-son- trying-to-give-me-gray-hair_ mode into _extreme-mothering_ mode.

Within minutes, she has all six knights squished around her tiny table with six steaming cups of tea. A large kettle of savory soup bubbles over the open hearth and a mouth-watering apple pie is baking in the adjacent clay oven. Hunith picks up her own cup of tea and squeezes into the gap between Gwaine and Mordred’s elbows.

”Now, dear,” she says to Mordred, “How are you settling in? Are the rest of these boys treating you well?”

Gwaine snickers. Mordred does an admirable job of smiling and nodding politely at Hunith, not breaking eye contact even when Gwaine yelps as his own glove levitates off his lap and smacks him.

”Yes, thank you,” Mordred says pleasantly. “Everyone’s been very welcoming. Emrys— _erm_ —Merlin has even been teaching me a little when he has time to spare.”

”Oh,” Hunith says, her blue eyes going wide just like her son’s when he worries. “Is Arthur working him too hard again? He forgets to eat when he’s run off his feet. Maybe I should send some of his favorite biscuits back with you all. In fact—”

Hunith jumps up from the table again, having barely touched her tea. Elyan tries to reassure her that Merlin is eating enough—because even though Gwen’s busy being queen now, she still pays close attention and scolds Merlin when he doesn’t—but to no avail. By the time the pie comes out of the oven, nine batches of Merlin’s favorite biscuits are waiting to go in.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

“Hunith, my good lady, you’ve outdone yourself,” Gwaine says, leaning back in his chair after demolishing two servings of apple pie. “That was the best pie I’ve ever had.”

“Thank you, Gwaine.” Hunith’s eyes light up. “I’ll make another and send it back with you boys. Actually perhaps I’d better make two…”

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The fire is burning low in the hearth by the time Hunith has finished grilling each knight in turn about the shenanigans her little boy has been getting up to in Camelot.

“He doesn’t want me to worry,” she tuts, “so he never puts the mishaps in his letters. But that boy attracts trouble like a lodestone draws iron; I know better than to believe he’s managing to stay out of trouble entirely.”

“...well, the king did issue a decree about three weeks ago banning Merlin from games of chance across the entire kingdom,” Lancelot says with an innocent smile and an impish twinkle in his eye.

Hunith rolls her eyes. “Merlin cheated him at dice, didn’t he?”

“You don’t seem surprised,” Gwaine says, a little too eager. “Just what sort of trouble did our Merlin get into before he met us?”

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

It’s nearing midnight and still Hunith assures them they’ve barely scratched the surface of the child-warlock’s escapades.

Gwaine listens with gleeful, rapt attention. Lancelot shakes his head in fond amusement. Leon looks rather stressed-out.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Hunith bundles them out the door bright and early. Their saddlebags are filled to bursting with biscuits, pies, and a small flock of knitted socks and soft scarves.

“Come back anytime!” she tells them cheerily as she warmly embraces each one.

She waves as they mount up and ride out.

“Please remember to tell Arthur ‘thank you,’” she calls after them, “And tell my son to visit soon.”

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

“Merlin!” Gwaine yells from the courtyard. “We come bearing gifts!”

“What?” the warlock yells back, leaning precariously out of Arthur’s window.

“Biscuits!” Gwaine shouts back, as if that’s a sufficient explanation.

Merlin leans a bit further and cranes his neck. “What?” he repeats.

“Your favorite!” Gwaine yells, as though that clears up any residual confusion, then adds excitedly, “And your mother sent a _pie_!”

Merlin nearly falls out of the window.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

“This is your fault.”

Arthur looks up from his reports, startled. His rooms are empty, but Merlin’s voice is as clear as if the warlock were standing right in front of him.

Merlin’s disembodied voice continues, “ _You_ sent them to Ealdor, didn’t you?”

“Merlin? What are—no, actually, _where_ are you?”

“Right here, you prat,” says the open air directly across the desk from Arthur.

“Riiiight,” Arthur says, setting down his quill. “So why can’t I see you, then?”

The air sighs. There’s a faint gust that rustles the papers on Arthur’s desk and a soft creak from the empty chair across from him.

“Merlin...did you turn yourself invisible?”

“Yes. I had to.”

“Had to?”

“Yes, had to. And it’s your fault.”

Arthur blinks at Merlin—or rather at where he thinks Merlin is.

“How is it _my_ fault that you’ve gone and turned yourself invisible?”

“Because you sent them to Ealdor _unsupervised_.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Arthur says, which is partly true because he doesn’t understand what that particular side-quest has to do with why his idiot Court Sorcerer is currently invisible.

“You sent them to Ealdor _unsupervised_ ,” Merlin’s voice insists. “And they talked to my _mother_.”

Realization slowly dawns.

“Hunith is a charming conversationalist,” Arthur says.

The arms of the empty chair creak in protest. “She told them _stories_.”

Arthur grins. “You mean the one about the tree and Old Man Simmons? Or the one about the angry floating chicken?”

The air splutters indignantly, so naturally Arthur keeps talking.

“Or maybe the incident with the feed trough, the clothesline, and the bucket of whitewash? I confess I have a hard time imagining you any paler than usual.”

The air has started making pained, choking noises.

“I think my favorite, though,” Arthur muses, “was the one about the time you accidentally set the laundry on fire because it was ‘taking too long to dry the boring way’...or, wait, maybe the one about—”

Merlin’s voice cuts him off. “I can’t believe they told you. I mean, everyone else—that’s bad enough, but _you_ , too?”

Arthur tries not to laugh at the utter dismay in Merlin’s tone. He fails.

There’s a dramatic moan from the ether. “This is the worst. I can never show my face in Camelot ever again.”

The empty chair creaks loudly and another small, swirling gust sends Arthur’s quill skittering across the parchment as the invisible Court Sorcerer presumably swans off with a suitably dramatic and petulant swirl of his long blue—invisible—cloak.

Arthur gives up trying to contain his laughter when he notices the tiny trail of biscuit crumbs in Merlin’s wake.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, special thanks to N16 and gatoradeeh7x3. I had far too much fun riffing off their ideas. ;)
> 
> I highly recommend N16’s fics; they’re fabulous, especially in how N16 handles the nuances of Merlin and Arthur’s friendship. I also recently read and giggled over gatoradeeh7x3’s _Merlin_ fic “The Servant Poacher” (their take on Merlin and Gwen’s impish friendship is darling).


End file.
